


Sights of Whoa

by misslonelyhearts



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Art, Food, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Public Nudity, by: todisturbtheuniverse, imagine this as part of the many outings alluded to in "How Strong the Habit of Idle Speech", sometime after the Apoca-Miss they're just dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21761206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslonelyhearts/pseuds/misslonelyhearts
Summary: The one where Aziraphale is inspired to give a crash-course in art appreciation. There should've been wiles involved, but Crowley gets lazy. As usual, he pays for it.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	1. Part One

  
  
  
“ _Unabashed by the human form_ ,” Crowley repeated aloud. He held the flyer out to Aziraphale, fluttering the pastel paper. “What’d’you say, angel? Grab a briquette. Give the ol’ form a-bash.”   
  
His habit of artistically arranging himself in, on, or against any surface that could withstand him suddenly became appropriate. Topical even. Since the moment he received them, Crowley’s limbs had been rebellious, rarely seen going the same direction as his torso or hips. It took no effort to pose mockingly among the many ridiculous columns in Aziraphale’s shop. Crowley gave a demure tilt to his head, touched his glasses, and a perfect contrapposto appeared. A figure in black Italian merino, with just a touch of brimstone.   
  
Aziraphale scowled and grabbed back his flyer.   
  
“Be serious. You know better than anyone the difference between figure drawing as artistic expression, and, and some bawdy slip-tease.”   
  
“ _Strip_ -tease.” Crowley dropped the pose, defeated. “Only you would think a slip was bawdy.”   
  
Aziraphale took the flyer to his desk to smooth out the wrinkles suffered at Crowley’s scornful hand.   
  
“It’s _art_. And as a member of this community, it’s time I did my part to tend the cultural fires that make humanity what it is.”   
  
While Aziraphale tilled the mess of his desk for a spare piece of paper, and a pen to copy down the information, Crowley leaned over the flyer again, chin in his hand. A slim finger traced the items at the bottom.   
  
“Mm, yes, the community--and this here, where it says they’re serving _yubari melon and kobe beef.”_ He looked pointedly into Aziraphale’s eyes, which’d gone glittery in a fight or flight response. “That’s a cultural fire that needs tending, is it?”   
  
“And Knipschildt chocolate.”   
  
“Sorry. Nip--”   
  
The chair, as it shot out from beneath the angel, made a sound like an elephant kicking a clarinet down a stairwell. Aziraphale stood over Crowley, glowering, helpless. Hangry.   
  
“Do _not_ judge me for this, Crowley. I won’t have it.”   
  
Crowley’s hands flew to his chest.   
  
“Ouch. Ow-when have I _ev-er_?”   
  
An unfortunate idea smacked into the window of Aziraphale’s mind. Crowley could nearly see it pancake there, feathers and all. His face filled with the idea, making him all lovely and pert. Crowley grimaced. He forgot to pose, and all his limbs (plus some) were already agreeing on a single direction.   
  
“Come with me,” Aziraphale said, pleased and hopeful.   
  
“No. No. No.” Crowley lurched out of his chair and made for the coat rack. “No way. Not for a lark. Not if you paid me.”   
  
A lightning fast shape, the color of Irish butter, darted in front of Crowley. A warm hand stopped him from throwing on his coat.   
  
“That’s just it, isn’t it? They’ll be _paying us_. Free lunch, Crowley.” Aziraphale straightened and gave his vest a little tug.   
  
Crowley’s nose wrinkled. _Money_.   
  
In a twist worthy of Hell, Aziraphale often paid for things with actual money because he was on a tight budget, miracle-wise. Crowley never paid for anything, unless being showy with money made someone else feel bad about themselves (Aziraphale excluded).   
  
It twinged him a bit, if he was honest, to think the angel might feel low on himself every time Crowley fired off miracles like his finger was a semiautomatic.   
  
“Fine. _Fine_.” He swung his coat over a shoulder, fell naturally into another classical pose, and mused at the skylight, “Been forty years since I ate a melon.”   
  
Aziraphale exhaled.   
  
“Oh, wonderful! It’ll be grand, I promise. Plenty of alcohol.”   
  
“Alright, stop hustling me, I’m coming. I’m going, actually. Oh, and I’ll have to meet you there,” Crowley said, stepping briskly through the shop doors. As they closed behind him, he leaned improbably backward and added, “On Tuesdays I shedmyskinandwankwithnewhands, _tatty bye!_ ”

  
  


***

  
  
Humans often had powerful cravings for certain foods, without knowing exactly what they’d like to eat. Aziraphale did not. He had never, and would never, experience a non-specific food craving. Anything he might want to eat again was filed away in his mind’s endless catalogue of Lovely Experiences, which could be accessed with greater ease and precision than an internet search engine.   
  
A human being might want something salty, and narrow it down to chips or soup.   
  
Aziraphale would crave nothing less specific than seasoned chips with sambal-style ketchup, served in a paper dish with the proper amount of grease soaking through, from the chip stand positioned at the edge of the market, where the woman from Bali kept a devastatingly gorgeous flower stall that always smelled of plumeria and orange blossoms.   
  
In order to earn a spot in his catalog, a food needed more than a flavor profile. It had to be a world entire. As a result, Aziraphale was slow to try new things. One had only to look at him, or anything he collected, to know this about him. New things had no frame of reference, no experiential keywords for him to rely upon.   
  
That’s how, on Saturday, Aziraphale found himself returning, again and again, to the flyer that he’d pinned to the board in the back room. The experience he planned to have at the event was mostly known to him: he’d participated in art classes before, and he’d enjoyed several foods on the menu before (though fleetingly). But something about the drawings on the flyer altered Aziraphale’s expected trajectory. The figures challenged him with their simple grace. They bore an aura of confidence that radiated beyond the visible lines, tempting him toward a new thing.   
  
As he contemplated them, the experience he planned to have became the experience he _could_ have, and _wanted_ to have.   
  
And really. It wasn’t 950 AD anymore.   
  
However Crowley insisted on teasing him, Aziraphale did not consider nudity to be vulgar. How could he? An ethereal being had no concept of nakedness. It was the _partiality_ that made Aziraphale cringe. Strutting about wearing half of something, or a fourth. Absurd. What grace was there in a robe without its pajamas? Garters and socks without the drapery of trouser legs? A slip without the dress to slip over it? A slip-tease, that’s what.   
  
All or none. Either was a state of perfection, diminished by partial inclusions of the other.   
  
He went to his desk, picked up the phone handset, and dialed Miriam Ilsford’s number.


	2. Part Two

On Sunday, Crowley had an idea.   
  
He was at home, running through logistics for the Bin Bag Caper.   
  
For a long time he’d been kicking around the idea of poking discreet holes into the bottoms of bin bags. How to do it naturally, that was the trick. Anydemon could miracle a bunch of holes inside a sealed package. It took real imagination to enlist an army of microscopic tardigrades to do it for you. Crowley liked the idea immensely. Rolls and rolls of plastic bags, each one hiding a nasty surprise. People would spend a week filling their bins up with juicy, slimy rubbish, and when they went to lift the bag out of the bin--   
  
The idea hit him.   
  
It dive-bombed into the window of his mind, shattered the glass, and rolled to a stop somewhere near his neon-blinking Aziraphale Mischief Center.   
  
“Should I?” he said, softly, fingers fanning over his mouth.   
  
He looked down the hall at the bronze statue.   
  
He swiveled to check his posture in the reflection of the TV.   
  
“Absolutely,” said Crowley, and picked up the phone.   
  
“WCDS, this is--”   
  
“Miriam! Sweetiekins! It’s AJ. Saw the advert, loved it, I’m in,” Crowley rattled off. “Don’t usually model for amateurs, but it’s for a good cause. Anything for the community. So, I’ll pop ‘round the salon seven-ish?”   
  
“AJ? I don’t remember. . .“ Her voice trailed as she searched for something. “This is awkward. I’m very sorry, but all the positions have been filled. Thank you so much for supportin--”   
  
Crowley hung up on her. Shame he hadn’t thought of it sooner. The gag would’ve killed.   
  
Ten steps down the hall, he remembered that he could simply miracle himself into the job. Crowley waffled, nearly did it, and then lost interest. The moment had passed. Better to give the angel a reprieve from his usual antics. He’d certainly earned it at the Tadfield Airbase.   
  
Besides, Aziraphale would need to be tip-top in order to thwart the Bin Bag plan.

  
  


***

  
  
On Tuesday, Aziraphale waited until the last possible moment to ring Crowley.   
  
“Go in without me, I’m a bit behind schedule,” he said, crimping the phone cord in his fist.   
  
An instant edge of worry coated Crowley’s voice on the line.   
  
“Something wrong? If they’re following you, I’ve got a couple of interplanar bug-out duffels stashed away. We can--”   
  
“Oh, no, no, no. Nothing like that. Just doing a little groom--erm, tidying.” Aziraphale glanced down at his new outfit, unsure. But the metaphorical batter had already hit the pan, it was time to make the crepes. “Everything is fine. Not to worry. Be there in two shakes.”   
  
The receiver clattered onto its cradle before Crowley finished saying, “Two shakes of what?”   
  
Thirty minutes and twelve-hundred minute alterations to his costume later, Aziraphale sat in a small, cozy room off the main gallery of a Westminster arts facility. From a tasseled pouf, seated beside a vanity, he watched WCDS members trundle industriously down the hallway, setting up for the event.   
  
_If it’s disastrous_ , he told himself, _I’ll wipe everyone’s memory. That’s all._   
  
He’d be doing them a favor, right? If his plan resulted in even one person having a bad time, it was his duty to see it miracled away. Wasn’t it? He blinked at himself in the vanity mirror. They could’ve given him a few chocolates before the drawing class, or a toast point, dolloped with whatever mouth-watering beef concoction they were cooking up.   
  
Aziraphale’s thrumming nerves were calmed somewhat by the extraordinary scent of the post-class gourmet meal being prepared one floor below. Two workers collided outside his door; one carried a presentation board bearing conversational food-analysis buzzwords: Umami, Fermentation, Knife-work, Sous-Vide, Sustainable Plating.   
  
The coordinator, Miriam, whistled past them and turned sharply into the room.   
  
Aziraphale jumped to his feet.   
  
“It’s madness. It’s coming together, but it’s madness. Can’t tell you what a blessing you are.” Miriam, who stood seven inches shorter than Aziraphale, fixed him with an intense, grateful look. An administrator’s look. He knew it well. “Well, don’t you look a treat.”   
  
“Oh, thank you. I had a devil of a time deciding,” he said, running his hands over the brocade. He would change it to jacquard when she left. “Is there, um. Is the crowd very large?”   
  
Miriam held her tablet out for Aziraphale to read. The guest list had tripled since he’d called to confirm his place.   
  
“Wonderful,” he choked out. “And, if I may, how many Secret Testers have you ended up with?”   
  
Miriam Ilsford shifted on her four-inch heels and gave Aziraphale a sympathetic pout and a jab on the arm.   
  
“Just the one, I’m afraid. Quality over quantity.”   
  
Aziraphale’s nerves went back to climbing the scales like a harp being tuned. He nodded, which brought him to his shoes. When she left, he would add a ruffle.   
  
“Hey, none of that,” Miriam said brightly. When his smile congealed, she came closer and touched his forearm. “This is the best turnout we’ve had for a new program in years. You might be my good-luck charm, Mr. Fell.”   
  
“That’s awfully kind of you. I promise to do my best,” he replied. Before she could pull away, he held on, needing one last thing. “Is there a slim fellow, all in black, hanging about in the salon?”   
  
“Anyone specific, love? That could be half the neighborhood.”   
  
“Ginger. Rather a luscious, flaming sort of ginger. Dark sunglasses.” Aziraphale closed his eyes. Quite on its own, his voice deepened. “Unethically tight trousers.”   
  
Miriam’s dark skin took on a sensual, knowing glow.   
  
“He’s here alright,” she said. “Skulking around the gallery, making rude comments about the sketches from other classes.”   
  
“Ah, lovely!” Aziraphale exhaled, a measure more relaxed than he’d been all day. It earned him a confused look.   
  
“Come out and mingle when you’re ready. Down the hall, through the gallery, you’ll see the salon at the end.” With final jab at his arm, Miriam swept out of the little room. “Can’t start without you!”   
  
_Wish you would_ , he thought, and miracled a pair of luxurious silk tassels onto his belt.   
  
With that, Aziraphale took the long walk through the building to the artists’ salon.


	3. Part Three

Too many people in the salon had got stuck extolling the benefits of lime juice in modern cuisine. Round and round they went, unable to escape their talking-point, like Roombas stuck in a foyer.  
  
“It’s that pop of acid you need.”  
  
“Nothing brings a dish together like it. Maybe lemon?”  
  
“Would satsuma do?”  
  
“Lime is the perfect acid. Things really. . .pop.”  
  
“It’s _bright._ ”  
  
Crowley’s skin contracted into a wholesale cringe. He flicked his fingers. One of the men in the group, having suddenly recalled his Napoleonic studies, and lacking anything further to say about the culinary application of citrus, made an unfortunate conversational leap.  
  
“Did you know horse meat can cure scurvy?”  
  
From several feet away, Crowley grinned. The group disbanded hastily.  
  
He was about to amuse himself by sauntering among the easels that encircled the model’s dais. If he weakened every stick of charcoal by varying degrees, the next few hours would be accompanied by a pizzicato of broken implements, ripping paper, and blue cursing.  
  
But just as Crowley entered the salon, wincing at its benevolent natural light, Aziraphale intercepted him. For once, it was the angel going too fast. He came at Crowley, all nerves and purpose, like a speed-walking mum.   
  
“Where the heaven have you been?” Crowley grumped, and had the damnedest urge to hold Aziraphale still by the shoulders.  
  
A smile of relief budded briefly on Aziraphale’s face, which had gone an incandescent shade of rose.   
  
“Oh, around. Getting ready. Last minute spit-and-polish, you know.”  
  
Was he _winded_?   
  
“I really don’t--hey are those slippers?” At the bottom of his usual inspection of Aziraphale’s person, Crowley found a pair of house slippers so ornate no human person could have toiled over them. He leaned back, and put his cursed eyes to better use. “That’s a robe. You’re wearing a _house_ robe in a place that’s not your house. Why’re you dressed like Stevie Nicks doing Masterpiece Theater--are you even _wearing_ a shirt--Fuckssake you’ve got no _socks_.”  
  
In thousands of years, Aziraphale had resisted conjuring his clothes as Crowley did. To see the angel wearing threads of his own imagination, in public, knocked Crowley back. He hadn’t seen it coming, couldn’t have seen it, because he’d taught himself _not_ to. Self-inflicted blindness, of a sort.   
  
The person Crowley liked most in the world had a fragile sense of self and a strong pair of wings. If one didn’t want an angel flying away, one learned when to clam up, nod agreeably, and howl into the shrubbery in the privacy of one’s home.  
  
Staring at the tight V of the robe’s overlapping lapels, where delicate whorls of chest hair invited further inspection, Crowley wondered if these wonders would ever cease to lay him low.  
  
He started to nod, his lips glued by sheer will, but. . .the angel was _sockless in public._ Wearing a robe, in public. It begged comment, at the least. And to his duty as a provocateur, Crowley was obedient to fault. He rallied. Aziraphale’s eyes widened the way they did when he was about to give away the game. Crowley’s smirk began its curl, the first of many scalding innuendos formed on his mouth.  
  
But he was a fraction too late. A pleasant gonging sound came from the salon. A wave of people meandered toward the sound.  
  
Again, Aziraphale looked relieved, for a different reason.   
  
“Oh, that’s my cue. You better pick an easel.” He pointed to one with a good view. Crowley’s mouth parted, empty. Then, Aziraphale put a conspiratorial hand on his forearm. “Do enjoy yourself. I know I plan to.”  
  
With that, he moved off toward the center of the room.  
  
Flames of chaotic confusion licked Crowley’s cheeks.   
  
“Tell me what’s going on, or. . .” He foundered. _Wear sweatpants to lunch for all eternity? Make all cocoa taste like burnt dog hair?_ “Or, I’ll never tempt you again.”   
  
The corona of sunlit curls turned, ever so slightly, but he kept going.  
  
“Aziraphale?” Crowley said, voice breaking.   
  
He thought they weren’t doing secrets anymore.  
  
He could _feel_ the angel resisting the temptation to turn around and soothe his panic. With the strength of ages, Aziraphale strode onward through the forest of easels. . .and headed straight for the platform in the center of the room.  
  
The robe. The shifty eyes. The slippers. The foamy aura of nervousness coming off him.  
  
An image came to Crowley’s mind. An illustration. Well, more of a dirty cartoon. But it wasn’t his hand holding the Sharpie this time. Blind, thrilling, teasing terror enveloped him.  
  
“You. . . _wouldn’t_ ,” Crowley hissed anxiously at Aziraphale’s retreating form. 

  
  


***

  
  
The model’s dais had been set up in the center of the salon, where a great arcing skylight met a wall of windows on one side, like a conservatory. In the center of the platform, they’d placed a simple armless chair, and Aziraphale knew at once how to best use it in his pose. A gentle, clear light fell on the dais. It was as good as a sigil. Aziraphale felt drawn to it with a purpose, the purpose of making a certain demon’s sharp little jaw drop to the floor.  
  
At the edge of the platform, he toed off his embroidered ivory silk-and-lambswool slippers. After hopping onto the dais, he loosened the sash of his robe.   
  
Miriam addressed the class.  
  
“Remember to have fun, everyone. Breathe. Release the artist inside, and I promise you’ll be happy with the results.” There was a shifting around the room, then she turned to Aziraphale. “Whenever you’re comfortable, Mr. Fell.”  
  
 _Never._   
  
Good God, he would never be comfortable with this. Not with human social wiles. Not parading around in a literal glorified house robe. His only comfort was the pair of yellow eyes, burning a hole into his back from beyond the easels. But the prior twelve years had taught Aziraphale that not all discomfort was equal. Some forms of discomfort were delicious, and highly rewarding.  
  
He nodded at Miriam.  
  
With a slow, turning flourish, Aziraphale opened his robe and let it cascade to the floor.   
  
His celestial essence reached a crescendo of excitement that’d been building all week. It was almost enough to have just taken off the robe. Almost. There was the entire rest of the class to consider, including what he hoped was a dumbstruck Crowley. As Aziraphale moved to the chair to strike his pose, the salon held its collective breath. Immediately afterward, he experienced an explosive surge of Love that strained the ethereal fabric of the space.   
  
There was gasping. In a good way.  
  
Surrounded on all sides by easels and people, Aziraphale felt the swell of multitudinous sources of Love, each with its own flavor. From the left side of the salon: Adoration and Lust. From the right: Awe and Delight. From the back: a mixture of Joy and Nostalgia.   
  
From everywhere, even below: Pride, deep enough to be Cherishing, which covered a pre-existence of Agonizing Love.  
  
Being the object at the center of all that was like being inside a timpani, just as the mallet struck. But each reverberating sound-wave was Love. The effect was heady. Inside him, the substance of his immortal self answered Love with Love. Had he been capable, he might have swooned, but he also had a job to do. Empowered by the reaction he’d gotten, Aziraphale carried on posing.   
  
He sat in the chair with one leg extended, the other bent, and shifted his torso a quarter-turn toward the chair’s low back. His arms he arranged on the back and side of the chair.   
  
Aziraphale intended to imbue the pose with the following character:   
  
_A virtuous being, tireless in his love of the world, his dusty solitude broken by the sound of his name on the lips of a fast-approaching friend, turns in his well-worn seat to greet the single kindred soul in all of creation with whom he wants to share the news of the day, be it good or bad._  
  
It was a lot for a body to convey. From the reaction in the room, Aziraphale knew that he’d hit the bullseye.  
  
A reverent quiet filled the salon and the gallery. Everyone leaned forward in their chairs, charcoal sticks at the ready, but were slow to make their first marks. They seemed happy to stare at Aziraphale. Happy _because_ of him.   
  
Strictly speaking, he wasn’t supposed to court attention from humanity. Other angels did that, to great and terrible effect. Aziraphale’s body was issued to him for the purposes of utility only, to go unnoticed in the performance of his duties. Doubtless Heaven would look unkindly on the public pride that Aziraphale took in his human form. If challenged, he’d be unable to justify showing it off in such a sensational way. Except to say that, since “surviving” hellfire had earned him an inch of wiggle room in Heaven’s judgment, he was prepared to take the whole mile.   
  
If he’d known it would feel so extraordinary, though, he’d have done it centuries ago. Maybe for that Rubens fellow. Back then, he wouldn’t have gotten one over on Crowley so easily. _That_ made the whole endeavor more satisfying than any delicacy in his vast catalog.  
  
 _Crowley._   
  
After the cacophony of Love, Aziraphale nearly forgot to revel in the demon’s shock. He forgot to _gloat_ , of all the things. It was half the point. Without spoiling the pose, he scanned the salon for Crowley’s face.  
  
In the dense cluster of easels arrayed to the front, several rows back from the dais, he spotted the right easel. Behind it, a pennant of red hair rose above two depthless, black lenses.   
  
A throaty, anguished voice broke the silence of the salon.  
  
“ _Bugger_ ,” it said, sincerely.


	4. Part Four

_Aziraphale had tricked him._ _  
_ _  
_ _Aziraphale was naked._ _  
_ _  
_ _Aziraphale. Exalted, as they say. Proud. Satisfied as a lion on a rock._ _  
_ _  
_ _Did lions eat snakes?_ _  
_ _  
_ _This one ate snails covered in garlic butter, so there was hope._ _  
_ _  
_ _Hope hurt. Slightly less than the other._ _  
_ _  
_ _Angel bollocks._ _  
_ _  
_ _Angelphale._ _  
_ _  
_ _Aziraphallus._ _  
_ _  
_ _Go- GOdddDAMN IT._   
  
That last one would’ve caused a deadly embolism, if Crowley had spoken it.   
  
What flashed within him were not thoughts, precisely. They were a kind of demonic feedback, caused by a three-way revolt between his body, his imagination, and his Hellish essence. Each of them attempting to kick the other’s ass clear across space-time. And they were usually in such perfect harmony.   
  
Looking around, Crowley was cheered to find he wasn’t the only worm on the pavement, dying for love of sunlight. Most everyone in the salon, and a few waiters in the gallery, were having a time of it, trying to keep their mortal shit together in the presence of pure, _naked_ , ethereal love.   
  
As thoughts returned to him, they came abbreviated and ordered.   
  
**Thought 1:** Aziraphale was a _beautiful_ bastard.   
**Thought 1b:** Unless Aziraphale had gone celestially deaf, he had _surely_ heard the sound of Crowley’s beshitted soul screaming its admiration into the ether.   
**Thought 2:** If Crowley did not get abominably drunk, right now, there would be messy corporeal consequences.   
  
To start, he averted his eyes from the smug spectacle sitting on the dais.   
  
Holding onto his easel for support, Crowley reached into the firmament and grasped every particle of alcohol that existed within a forty metre radius around him. This included most of the wine for the event, but also a few cleansers under the sink in the basement, and one magnum-sized bottle of champagne that’d sat on a display shelf for nine years.   
  
Inebriation complete. Crowley heard the muffled sound of the event coordinator’s assistant in the gallery. She was swearing in hushed, florid tones about the missing wine.   
  
Detached from his riotous senses, Crowley could breathe and unclench and look around again. What he found were happy people everywhere. The widow, who put all her desires into sketching a pair of nice hands and sparkling eyes. The hipster with the man-bun, whose study began with thick, relaxed thighs, and worked outward from there. The sisters from Senegal, who reached across to help each other with difficult features, like a perfectly shaped lip, or the divine symmetry and strength held in the span of shoulders.   
  
Crowley was disgusted to find himself charmed by them. So, he wobbled onto a state of hateful jealousy. Much easier to deal with, drunk or otherwise.

He also began his own sketch, almost absently, as if his body needed to sneak it in under the radar before Hell noticed.   
  
“Why _them_ ,” he muttered, stroking lightly on the paper. “None of _them_ stopped Sat--stopped Armuh--with nothing but a, whatsit. Tire iron.”   
  
After roughing in the shapes and lines, he started on the details. But there was too much to admire in the details of Aziraphale, too much of Heaven. Hell’s signal cut through the alcohol, turning Crowley’s brain into a warzone of static screeching. With a brittle snap, his charcoal stick became two sticks. He leaned on the easel, forehead pressed against the top of the paper.   
  
Oh the blessed, cocking _wine_ .   
  
With liquor, it was different. Liquor made him creative and fun. Wine made him blobby and syrupy. And syrupy wasn’t going to help him draw genitalia in a juvenile way. It made him draw that, and everything else, in a _loving_ way.   
  
Sulfurous bile surged in Crowley’s throat.   
  
“Deceitful, cunning piece of--of art. Oh, I’m gonna make him _suffer_ ,” Crowley gritted out, seething, as he added, from memory, a winsome arrangement of feathers.   
  
Beside him, someone sighed. A plump old lady, wearing a crocheted flower pin in her hair, had stopped drawing to watch Crowley writhing on his chair.   
  
She clucked sympathetically at him, then turned back to the dais.   
  
“What is it about him that’s so alluring? I can’t put my finger on it,” she murmured.   
  
Crowley, who should’ve had seventeen lewd replies lined up, couldn’t conjure a one of them. Wickedness on his usual scale had abandoned him. Pathetic. Five words had run like a ticker-tape in his mind from the moment Aziraphale had dropped his robe. A sentence that held meaning no matter which word took the emphasis, which was pretty clever. And utterly destructive to Crowley’s state of mind.   
  
“He really made the effort,” said Crowley, slurring.   
  
More to the blessed point, he’d _wanted_ to. That was it.   
  
“No, that’s not it,” the woman said, and went on sketching.

  
  
  


***

  
  


The class went on for three hours before Miriam rang the gong again. This signaled that it was time for the artists to put down their charcoal and practice talking about food in a casually informed way.   
  
Aziraphale donned his robe and slippers, still pleasantly light inside, from all the Love and Pride. As the salon emptied of people, he felt delicate throbs of nervousness rising again. The urge to gloat about modeling for the class had left him, now he only wanted to see if Crowley had. . .well. . .if he’d _liked_ any of it.   
  
Crowley was already gobbling up a plate of food by the time Aziraphale located him in the gallery. Instead of posturing on the bar stool like some newly carved ornament, though, Crowley looked a bit like a candy wrapper that someone had tried to fold back into its original shape.   
  
Aziraphale groaned.   
  
“You’re _drunk._ ”   
  
“No,” Crowley corrected. “I am _sooper_ drunk.”   
  
“Did you leave anything for the rest of them?” Aziraphale nodded to the others, most of whom had formed groups around their own bar-tables. He peeked at the table behind Crowley. “Or me?”   
  
“F’course. I’m not an asshole,” said Crowley.   
  
He swung around, revealing a table piled high with all the delicacies that had been promised. All the summer greens and melon appetizers and the kobe entrees. Saffron foams and triple-creme bries swaddled in flaky pastry. And two cups of wine that would never go empty.   
  
“Had to act fast. They would’ve eaten it all before you popped your first cherry tomato.” Crowley snickered and sipped his wine. “Greedy little piranhas.”   
  
The food should have been tepid, too, given how long it’d taken him to join everyone in the gallery. But as Aziraphale leaned over the table, each dish glistened and steamed at its proper serving temperature. At the other side of the table stood a display absolutely crammed with chocolate truffles.   
  
“The Knipschildt! You dint haff to,” Aziraphale said, mouth already full.   
  
The noise he made around the chocolate was, in a word, _indecent_ .   
  
Crowley’s mouth pursed in approval, but he stayed quiet about it. He smiled at Aziraphale with his shadowed eyes, and a more languid pose returned to his limbs. Aziraphale tucked into his plate, content to have everything just as it was at that moment. The worlds of flavor that passed across his palate, Crowley’s chatter and his silent enjoyment, the air of companionship that grew dense and rich as they lingered. For something he adored so thoroughly, it did not make him as happy as it once did.   
  
At any point in their history together, if a day had concluded just here, with the two of them clinking glasses, Aziraphale would’ve called it a _victory_ . He would’ve been wrong, of course. This he knew, now, with divine certainty.   
  
Until he’d been prepared to walk into oblivion with Crowley, standing alone together with a sword in one hand, and the Antichrist’s sticky fingers clasped in the other, Aziraphale had been ignorant of victory’s true shape. There existed just one other soul in the universe who’d been there, done that, and gotten the. . .tee shirt.   
  
But, the Demon of Speaking Truth to Power had turned up painfully circumspect today.   
  
Aziraphale put down his fork, took an indelicate gulp of his wine, and dabbed his mouth. Happily, the feeling he’d gotten from the artists remained. Within him swirled a tidepool of residual boldness and Love. He used it to grip Crowley’s knee. It jumped at his touch, and Crowley went rigid.   
  
Like the finger of a mad Scostman, humanity rushed in to thwart Aziraphale. At least Miriam Ilsford could not accidentally discorporate him.   
  
“Mr. Fell!” Her tiny frame advanced into his personal space.   
  
“Oh!” Aziraphale flinched as politely as possible.  
  
“Splendid man! You were a knockout. Job well done.” Before he could dodge her, she reached up to peck his cheek, and came away a little gooey-eyed from the contact-Love. She blinked back a tear, composed herself, and added, “You should be very proud of yourself.”   
  
“Oh, he is.”   
  
Miriam pivoted on her heels to study Crowley, who had slid precariously to the edge of his stool.   
  
“Your tester’s fee, Mr. Crowley,” she said, coolly. She slipped a cheque from inside her tablet’s cover, but the drunken, creative folding of Crowley’s spine distracted her. He had to pull the paper from her hand. “Thanks, uh, thanks again for your participation.”   
  
“Mmhm,” Crowley purred, waving at her with the cheque.   
  
When she went briskly ticka-tacking her way across the gallery, the check went up in flames between his fingers.   
  
Aziraphale stared at him. He would not be ignored. They would have. . .a discussion. It would be about something real. He focused such intense need into the side of Crowley’s face that the demon winced as if he’d been pinched.   
  
“Hey, hey-easy.” He sat up, morose.   
  
“Well? Say something.” Aziraphale gestured to himself, then backward at the salon full of easels. “If you’re not too drunk.”   
  
“Wh-uh. Why? _Why_ . . . is what I say. Before I say the next thing. Which is,” Crowley blurted, stalling. He spun his stool around to the table, and miracled more wine into his cup. His back curved protectively over his bowed head, which gave a weak bobble now and then. “I thought we were gonna, you know, have a doodle and nibble and that’s it. What possessed you?”   
  
_And why wasn’t it me?_ Crowley went on to ask, in the plaintive silence that followed. He peered up at Aziraphale, who caught his own subtle reflection in Crowley’s lenses.   
  
“Me. I possessed me. I don’t flaunt it as easily as you do yours, but this body of mine represents a standard of beauty and refinement equal to any haute couture,” Aziraphale explained mildly. Then, he squared his shoulders. “Why shouldn’t I share that? In an appropriate setting.”   
  
Crowley considered this.   
  
“It paid more, didn’t it?”   
  
“Ob _scene_ ly more,” Aziraphale said, with a Heavenward roll of his eyes. He wouldn’t find what he wanted there, though. He swayed closer, bracing an elbow on the table beside Crowley’s. “What I wanted to say--”   
  
He was startled as the closed lines of Crowley’s body suddenly spooled out, his limbs having come to a conclusion about where to be. He tipped back, giving a deeper examination of Aziraphale’s carriage and clothing and attitude.   
  
“At first. I’ll admit, at first I was thrown. Knew I had it in you, all along. S’spectacular, why hide it so much?” His hands flapped appreciatively, up and down. Heart a-flutter, Aziraphale cast a look around the gallery, but no one paid them any attention. Crowley’s voice dove to a grim register, like a man who’d narrowly avoided something unpleasant. “First blush, though, when you. . .I could’ve discorporated from shock. I’d have gone snake and slithered right out of here, but my skin’s too new. Hurts.”   
  
He made a snakey gesture with one hand. Aziraphale rode the current of Crowley’s drunken praise, but by the end his brow wrinkled in confusion. His _skin_ hurt?   
  
_On Tuesdays I shed my skin and. . ._   
  
A shockingly vivid image, attached to Crowley’s parting words at the bookshop, surfaced in Aziraphale’s memory.   
  
“You. No. You didn’t--” He recoiled, then returned to covertly examine Crowley for evidence that he didn’t want to find. Mostly didn’t. “You actually _did_ that? I assumed you were joking.”   
  
“I was,” Crowley assured him, before peeking over the rim of his glasses. “At first.”   
  
“Unbelievable,”Aziraphale breathed, flushing hard. The image would not subside.   
  
“What? You stood here _nude_ . Nude as a _nudie-drake,_ in front of Go--in front of Maude and everyone.” Crowley’s throat constricted, making him reach for his wine. It jumped in the tumbler as he went on. “Tell me how a man throttling his wineskin in his own home is more of a wank than all this.”   
  
As he gulped, he twirled an emphatic hand at the room full of would-be artists and food critics.   
  
“I will tell you how, in three points.” Aziraphale counted them off on his fingers, keeping his voice at a vicious whisper. “You’re not a man. _That’s_ not a wineskin. And _wanking_ is not _art_ .”   
  
Crowley pursed his lips.   
  
“Oh angel, best sit down,” he said. “I’ve got terrible news about every artist ever.”   
  
It was hopeless to argue. Hopelessly fun. Which was the experience Aziraphale always wanted, but could never plan for without Crowley’s intervention. The bait he took was meticulously handcrafted for him, and only him. It was bespoke. That was love, if not Love. And it was the critical element that’d gone missing from the day.   
  
No, withheld.   
  
Aziraphale perched on a barstool, but sprang to his feet again when his robe gaped threateningly around his thighs. Crowley stared into his wine tumbler, and Aziraphale sensed a machination of avoidance forming in his wily brain.   
  
“Was it. . . terrible?” he ventured. And when Crowley looked up at him. “Was I?”   
  
Machinations halted. For an infinitesimal span of time, the demon’s kindness was un-gagged and allowed to speak freely.   
  
“Hell no,” he said. And, as if that wasn’t enough, added, “Loved it. You got me good. And that one over there? Big fan. All about you, my friend. Ready to convert to Nudie-ism.”   
  
Crowley must’ve identified the ‘fan’ as the Taiwanese widow who had twice moved her easel closer to the dais, but Aziraphale couldn’t be bothered to confirm. Nothing mattered after the word ‘love’ fell off Crowley’s lips.   
  
“Oh? Oh, that is so nice to hear. Thank you,” Aziraphale gushed. “For everything.”   
  
“Pah,” said Crowley, and shut himself up with more wine.   
  
If he batted his lashes in Morse code, and made semaphore of his twiddling hands, Aziraphale could summon the courage to explain to Crowley about the barrage of Love he’d felt, posing on the dais. And to ask--no, demand to know--if a certain keen contribution had come from Crowley’s quarter.   
  
He dithered too long.   
  
Crowley eyed him, anticipated the asphyxiation of their fun, and made his usual early exit. With a vigorous shake of his head, he stood up.   
  
“M’gonna sober up. Steal some melons, maybe. Save you some? No? Alright.”   
  
He clamped a steadying hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. His sunglasses bobbed. With a great winching of his body, he returned the alcohol to its former vessels. Dozens of empty wine glasses refilled, as did all the empty bottles of mid-range vintages, and one Display-Only magnum of champagne.   
  
Sobered and restored, Crowley swung about to address the room.   
  
“Did we all have fun trying new things? I did. Feels good. A bit like shedding your skin.” He smooched the air around no one in particular as he strolled past. “Chow, everyone.”   
  
Aziraphale stowed his disappointment and waved. So did Crowley, though his back was turned.   
  
“So long, Crowley. Mind how. . .oh what’s the point.” Aziraphale dropped his arm with a huff. “He never listens to the end.”   
  
A voice spoke up behind him.   
  
“I had one like that. ‘Leave ‘em wanting more,’ that was her motto.”   
  
A scruffy blond person stood on the other side of the table. He wore houndstooth jogger-pants, a denim jacket, and had arranged the top section of his longish hair into a bun.   
  
“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale squinted at him.   
  
The man with the topknot plucked a Knipschildt truffle from the tiered display. He gestured with it, leading Aziraphale’s eyes back and forth.   
  
“My ex. If _she’d_ drawn me the way _he_ drew you, I’d still be making her eggs every Sunday.”   
  
The calm, filtered light that bathed the salon suddenly surged brighter, as if someone had removed a protective film from the windows. Aziraphale stared at the man with the topknot. Sensing that a question was about to ruin his bite of truffle, the man with the topknot wisely set it down.   
  
Aziraphale tilted in, voice low.   
  
“Do you suppose if you’d. . . talked to one another. . . made things clear with word _and_ deed, that the eggs would still be, um, on the table? So to speak.”   
  
The man with the topknot gave it a good think. He rubbed the stubble along his jaw.   
  
“Well, I did a deed with her brother, when we were on family holiday together. So, I doubt it.”   
  
“Ah, I see,” replied Aziraphale.   
  
The man with the topknot collected his truffle again, and went to stand with the event coordinator and her assistant.   
  
Alone with his surfeit of thoughts and snacks, Aziraphale gazed across the salon in the direction of the changing room. How easy it would be to miracle his usual ensemble back onto his body, rather than shamble around the room, beslippered, his dignity endangered by one careless flap of the robe. With a hand held firmly on the robe’s belt, Aziraphale traversed the room. He nodded beatifically at the artists who reached out to thank him, compliment him, and in the case of the Taiwanese widow, slip a piece of paper into the pocket of his robe.   
  
As he weaved around the sketches still cradled on their easels, he poked about, eager to see what Crowley had drawn. If it was a dirty cartoon, or a terrifying depiction of a principality’s true form, Aziraphale didn’t care. Curiosity consumed him. At Crowley’s easel, however, he found nothing. Not even a doodle. The paper stood creamy and unblemished on its ledge.   
  
Crestfallen, Aziraphale turned to leave, and that’s when he spotted the smudge.   
  
An undeniable smudge of charcoal stood out on the top of the easel. Its position and intensity suggested that the artist had gripped the easel with some force, possibly for better leverage on the paper. Perhaps in the throes of inspiration.


	5. Part Five

Though he liked to tease the angel about his lack of modernity in all things, Crowley’s apartment had also changed very little over the years. Once he’d gotten the style just right, there’d been no point in fussing with it. The plants? Sure. The gadgets? Gotta have those.  _ Appearances _ . But the minimalist decor, the chair, the color palette, those were things Crowley would have to care about if they were ever going to change.   
  
He didn’t expect he’d be swapping out the bloody _Mona Lisa_ for a jumped-up graffito of his own. But away she went, into the lounge, where her smile added ‘confused arousal’ to the houseplants’ daily repertoire of ‘fear and trembling.’   
  
In her place, Crowley hung a charcoal study of an angel in proud repose.    
  
Honestly, it wasn’t half bad. The wings were a bit there-not-there, and the stronger lines went a little wobbly where Crowley had snapped his stick, but it was good. It was  _ faithful _ . Seeing him so prominently displayed in the flat was a little unnerving. Something to do with how high he’d placed it on the wall, probably. But, Crowley couldn’t deny that it really brightened up the room. Every time he looked at it, he wanted to shed his skin.   
  
Soon enough, he was comfortably sitting at the desk again, deciding how many holes per bin bag, and how many bags per district, all under Aziraphale’s suggestive gaze. Like the bastard was just there, on his shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> For the life of me, I couldn't come up with a title. So, I looked to the most successful and on-brand fanfic of all time, _Paradise Lost_
> 
> Milton and Crowley might agree that, besides its workaday definition, Hell is also state of mind, occupied by the naked, restless love of an angel.
> 
> At once as far as angels ken he views  
> The dismal situation waste and wild,  
> A dungeon horrible, on all sides round  
> As one great furnace flamed, yet from those flames  
> No light, but rather darkness visible  
> Served only to discover sights of woe,  
> Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace  
> And rest can never dwell.


End file.
